


White Wolf, Shining Lioness and a Bard with a Lute

by Mu2



Series: Witcher Works [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Chapter three touches on sensitive topics, Disregard for destiny, Familial Soulmates, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Platonic Soulmates, Please read the notes in the beginning of that chapter, Rating went up accordingly, Romantic Soulmates, So destiny is going to kick Geralts bottom, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:40:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22640383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mu2/pseuds/Mu2
Summary: Witcher's aren't meant to have soulmarks. Geralt has two.Jaskier has two soulmarks but falls in love with a Witcher.Ciri has two soulmarks for her fathers. Who need to realize that their other Marks are for each other.*This is part of different series and was a stand alone fic, Part 2 is up now called 'Bestowed by the Gods*
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witcher Works [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1636801
Comments: 82
Kudos: 1191
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	1. White Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> There are both familial marks and romantic ones and platonic ones.
> 
> Ciri STRICTLY has familial ones for Geralt and Jaskier in this fic.
> 
> If there are any mistakes please feel free to point them out :)

It was a well-known fact to all; Witcher’s didn’t have any Marks. They didn’t get the skin-mark, where you and your match would have corresponding marks somewhere on the skin. Nor did they have string-mark, where you were attached to someone on the other end. No Witcher had even had the most basic of Marks; the taste of what your match had eaten, the scars and hurts of your match, their thoughts inscribed on you, their first or their last words even. Nothing. Every Witcher since the dawn of time it seemed had never had a Mark after their trials.

Most, if not all, hadn’t had a mark before the trials either. Many commented saying that that was how you knew at a young age if they were to be a Witcher. Sometimes it was harder to notice, the taste, scars and string-marks were all harder to notice in young ones. By the appropriate age for the child to go off to become a Witcher it was noticeable though.

When children flocked together to comment, “She ate a nut! I can taste them now without my mouth going tingly!”, or to remark that the small rose on someone’s foot had blossomed even more, a signal that they were to meet their match soon, these children did not. Neither did they feign interest most of the time, their otherness was already apparent.

Geralt of Rivia was not one of these other children. He had been born with a skin-mark, one of the most coveted Marks. It was told that the larger the mark the stronger the bond. Sometimes a rare soul was born with more than one; they may have a romantic mark with a platonic one. Or two platonic. Even more rarely they had a familial mark, they would be family to another in such a strong way that even the wretched gods could not deny the bond they would have. 

Geralt of Rivia was born with a romantic mark and a familial one. The marks were so large that they covered his entire back and curved toward his torso. They were blurry, a signal that the matches had not yet been born. The consensus was that perhaps Geralt would meet his romantic mark and become familial toward their child. Or be familial to a child and then meet his romantic mark. By the size alone of the marks, creeping up along his shoulders and peeking over his shirt or tunic collars, all could tell he was to have some of the strongest bonds anyone on the continent would have.

Then he was given over to be a Witcher. Even those who has met the bubbly child in passing mourned the loss of those Marks for him. They hadn’t even had the chance to become unblurred.

Those in charge of his training saw the marks and were horrified. Who amongst them, even given what they had seen and fought, could fathom handing over such a child with those marks, to go through the Witcher trials? There was no doubt in their minds, the marks would disappear after the trials, but they would do all in their power to train the child as best they could so that perhaps, perhaps, the marks may stay.

***

Over the training of Geralt of Rivia it became ritual to check the Marks in the morning and night. When it came time to break fast an older Witcher would walk behind him and pull the back of his collar to see the marks. Still there. At night before they went to bed the same would happen. Still there.

Almost everyone collectively held their breath, even the other children who did not like Geralt of Rivia, to see if the child’s Marks had made it. Even if he had died, they still hoped for the Marks to be there on his back. 

Hope was a dangerous thing for the Witchers. Especially for it to revolve around one person and their Marks.

***

Lambert didn’t have a Mark before or after becoming a Witcher. When he was younger, before the training, he pretended to have the taste-mark. It was easiest to pretend. But he couldn’t keep up with the pretence, he forgot, as children do, to keep the charade up. After two weeks of not claiming a taste those around him believed the match of him dead. 

People drew lots to tell the child that his Mark’s match was dead. Lambert didn’t mourn, he just lamented to himself that he hadn’t kept up the act.

So, when time for Witcher’s to recruit came around he was nominated due to his dead match. Only Lambert knows the truth of the Mark.

***

When white haired Geralt of Rivia survived the Trial of Grasses, pale and shivering, with his Marks bold against the pallor of his skin, the Witcher’s rejoiced. Amongst the dead children and the failures of the currently alive ones to come, they rejoiced. One of their own, for there was no doubt that Geralt of Rivia would live to become a fierce Witcher, had a Mark and had kept it through everything.

Throughout the other trials they continued to check, and the Marks continued to stay. Still growing, still blurred.

***

Vesemir told Geralt of Rivia the importance of the Marks on his body. What it meant that they continued to grow across his back and now his chest. And, what it meant that they were so blurred.

The child took the news solemnly, acknowledged what the Marks meant, what they would later mean to him.

It would take more than a few decades for the Marks to start to become clearer. By that time Geralt of Rivia had become the Butcher of Blaviken, and a feared Witcher. His torso and body so riddled with scars that you would think that the Marks would be misshapen. 

As the scars became more pronounced, larger and more deadly, the Marks continued to accommodate the new additions, as if the Marks and the scars were predetermined.

And they were.

***

After a time spent on the Path Geralt of Rivia’s left side started to become clearer. It also continued to grow.

By the time he estimated that the lute’s owner was eight the lute was fully formed. It was plain and unadorned. When the child was around ten the lute changed slightly. The wood was of a different kind and finish. Strings that were large and for the clumsy fingers of children were swapped for thinner ones. Carvings started to appear in the wood.

When they reached maturity, or there abouts, the lute was of professional make, for a professional player. It had grown larger, was full sized for an adult now, and showed that perhaps Geralt of Rivia’s match was richer than he was comfortable with.

***

Geralt of Rivia immediately recognized the lute in the bard’s hands. Knew intimately the curves and scratches. Said lute was across side, rib cage and crept along his collarbone and neck. A reason why he wore high necked jackets.  
Another reason being that the high-necked jackets made it harder for ghouls, wraiths and others to injure a jugular. 

He needed to go, leave before the bard noticed that the White Wolf, Butcher of Blaviken, was in the tavern.

Given the obvious nature of the lute Geralt of Rivia doubted that his own Mark on the bard was something subtle. It could be his swords, potions, medallion or even a pile of monster corpses. Whatever it was he knew that the bard would recognise him as the Mark’s owner.

***

His lute, the bard’s lute, had been destroyed. Even if it weren’t for the noise or witnessing the elf destroy the instrument, Geralt of Rivia would have felt it. And feel it he did.

The cracks dug into his ribs; the broken strings snapped against his skin; if they lifted his shirt then they would see a wreck of a mark. Scattered along his body. The neck of the instrument didn’t rest against his own anymore, he could feel it hanging by a lone string, dangling from the body like a corpse, resting along his thigh.

He was tied up, helpless, and his lute was broken. Geralt of Rivia was distraught and didn’t know what to do. So, he talked. Hoping, which was dangerous, that he could save the rest of the lute, his Mark and match, from a grislier fate. He would accept whatever they decided for him, but unless they let the bard go, he would pull every word from his mind forth, spin them until he was dizzy, to save his match.

When the bard took the new lute from the elf Geralt of Rivia felt that too. A hand, delicate and soft, reached across, picked up the destruction on his body and replaced it with a new lute.

Days later he would feel as the bard etched dandelions into the wood, humming about the White Wolf and coins. Each delicate flower was a fingernail scratching at him.

This carried on for days, went for weeks, until the entire surface was a cacophony of dandelions. Until the bard became Jaskier in Geralt’s head.

***

There were three turning points with Jaskier. The night at Cintra, the djinn, and then the dragon.

Geralt, for he was just Geralt to Jaskier, knew that he went to Cintra with Jaskier to watch over the man, watch over his lute. He would even dress, as he had been told, as a sad silk trader, to do so.

He would do anything to prevent cracks or breakage in his lute.

So, he sat there, for the entire night, watching as Jaskier sang, pawed and was pawed at by nobles. Clenching his teeth beside the Queen of Cintra as she poked at him, asking him about Witchers and their Marks. 

Then the cursed man came into the room, claiming the Law of Surprise, and asking Pavetta the sad princess to marry him. Claiming he had her mark, a red string attached to his finger.

The issue with the string-marks was that only those attached could see them, so none but Pavetta could confirm that he was telling the truth. To Geralt at least, her reaction to the man showed more than seeing the string could. They were in love and desperate for each other.

Jaskier would likely make a song about this.

Then Geralt was in the thick of it, fighting off soldiers as they tried to harm the cursed man, watching always to ensure that Jaskier hadn’t entered the fray.  
The Queen stepped forth, tried to kill the cursed man, then the princess and she married two men. Why were the journeys that Jaskier took him on always somehow more eventful than a cave full of werewolves?

When he claimed the Law of Surprise, he felt it. A claw sunk into his shoulder, gripped and released the flesh. The child would be his own he knew. Just as he knew that a lioness would appear from under that shroud on his second Mark.

***

The djinn incident was entirely an accident. Jaskier’s throat, the sorceress, the wish; all of it was an accident, one which Geralt wanted to take back.

As all people knew that Witcher’s didn’t have Marks, Sorceresses didn’t either. Theirs was purposefully removed. Along with the other pieces of themselves that would ‘distract’ them from their chaos.

A piece of Geralt sympathized with Yennefer as she tried the impossible, getting her Mark back. She’s had a familial one, one word on her wrist, ‘Mama’. It had gone when she made her transformation, removed with her womb. Such a thing was a deadly blow. To lose the womb could still mean that she may one day be ‘Mama’, but the loss of the Mark eradicated any clinging hope.

Jaskier was quieter after Geralt rescued Yennefer. Geralt knew that Jaskier had seen them on that floor and he did not know how apologise. Neither of them had confirmed their Marks, even as Geralt lay naked before Jaskier in baths. The man had never commented. 

Having seen the bard naked the Witcher knew that they didn’t match. Jaskier didn’t have a printed Mark on him. He had once asked about it, to which Jaskier confirmed his theory.

“My Mark? It’s a sight one. The one where you see only the colour of their hair and eyes and black and white. The world is awash with little colour for me, but still resplendent in its beauty.”

Jaskier would only see in four colours, his matches hair, eyes, and black and white. The bard didn’t tell Geralt what other colours he saw.

***

After the dragon, Yennefer and his outburst Geralt immediately regretted everything he had said. He regretted it until Jaskier got in the last word, cutting and cruel, confusing Geralt to the last.

“I wondered why they called you the White Wolf Geralt. Was it because that’s your Witcher school, your Mark which is white,” The Lioness was white yes, but the lute was a brown, deep and warm, why didn’t Jaskier mention it as well? “So when I heard that you’re called so because your hair is white I had hope. That we could go to the coast and I could tell you, then I would finally be able to see anything else except for your eyes. Though I guess it was a folly. Hope, as you told me, is dangerous.”

Then he was gone. And Geralt remembered, with his limited knowledge from that talk with Vesemir, sight-matches cannot see their own Marks on another. They would need to acknowledge the bond first. Jaskier couldn’t see his lute because their bond wasn’t acknowledged, but he was too far away now for Geralt to reach.

And when Geralt finally was ready to reach he needed to choose. The lute or lioness. Knowing Jaskier he chose to go after his lioness first, take her away from the danger and then find his lute.


	2. Shining Lioness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri's part

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for the positive feedback so far! I am so happy that other's enjoy the family and soulmate feels too!

The Princess of Cintra was blessed. Everyone knew this.

As a young lioness, soon to be the only young Lioness of Cintra, of Cintra she was known to be special. When news of her soulmarks came out Cintra held a month-long celebration. Their future monarch was chosen by the gods, recognised early for her gifts and strength. 

The princess had the rarest form of Marks, the type of Mark that only those chosen by the gods were bestowed. She had the Triumphs of her matches printed in gold on her skin. All who looked upon the princess could see the veritable tapestry upon her skin. Golden lines showed the stories of battles against monsters, the ballads of great heroes, the history of two great matches. 

What those who looked upon her skin didn’t know was that these stories weren’t of her future husbands, but those of her fathers.

Her biological parents and grandparents knew this fact. They resented the Marks, which every bard who travelled to Cintra wrote a poem or song about. 

Every day that they glimpsed the golden lines they were reminded that they weren’t part of the tapestry that was to be the princess’s life. They were passing, fleeting, a momentary lapse before she was reunited with the two men. 

Cintra’s Queen, the great Lioness, banned songs or poems about the Marks. The princess’s mother and father dressed her in clothing which hid the gold. Collectively they banded together to rid the Court of Cintra itself of gold. They replaced the colour with silver, copper, brass. Anything that was not gold and not a reminder of what was to come.

***

Too soon Pavetta and her husband died. Leaving the Golden Princess alone with her grandmother. 

Too soon did the grandmother also pass, but this time the world felt the repercussion of the Cintran monarch’s death.

That night Ciri felt the golden lines weave, shaping a new battle or ballad onto her skin. She knew that the Wolf on her skin was within the city walls, but she didn’t know who or where they were.

When she was hastily dressed, before being forced to leave, she was told to never show another her tapestry-mark. The Golden Princess, Little Lioness of Cintra, was too recognisable by her Marks.

***

Being alone wasn’t as scary as Ciri thought it would be. When she was at the camp with other survivors was when she was afraid. Any slip up, not responding to her new name ‘Fiona’, accidentally showing her Marks, anything could get her killed.

Being alone wouldn’t do that. Though the cold or bandits probably would. At least it wouldn’t be because of who or what she was. That type of death would be safer, perhaps kinder.

The forest and the possibility of losing her new friend was also scary. Through these interactions Fiona realised that people in general were scary.

Mousesack came for her when she was feeling overwhelmed, only, he wasn’t Mousesack. The shifter asked to see her tapestry, to make the shift more believable, when she said no it accepted her decision.

Not a lot of people recently were respecting her decisions.

Fiona was alone again running. Feeling as her golden threads continued to weave storylines of her fathers, hoping that they told a story of getting closer to her.

***

Even having just met Geralt Ciri, not Fiona when she was with him, she knew he was the wolf. It wasn’t the medallion or tales of the White Wolf that the bards in Cintra sang. It was his eyes, just as golden as her Marks, which shone from her Wolf.

The songs and ballads would be from her other father. Strange, she thought, that one father’s story should retell the others.

“Do you know a bard?” Ciri had been asking similar questions of the Witcher, her father, for the past two weeks. “Or a poet, a poet could work too.”

Geralt, atop Roach his stead, grunted in affirmative. He wasn’t the most talkative, but he never ignored or treated her as lesser. Sometimes, when she asked a question in relation to monsters or Witchers he would pause, think, then answer in depth.

“Are we going to meet him?”

“How are you so sure that the bard I know is a male Leo?” He’d taken to calling her Leo, meaning Lion, but it could also double as a boy’s name too. Better than Fiona. Also, she wasn’t being as sneaky as she thought she was, Geralt had caught her slip in that she knew of her other father. 

A decision had to be made, she either played it off, or told him that she had her other father as part of her Mark too. “He’s woven into my Mark too. I was wondering if we were going to meet him since he’s a match as well.”

Geralt stopped Roach, in turn Ciri stopped Storm. When he looked at her his expression was terrifying. This great Witcher, whom many feared, was haunted by the mention of her other father. Something had happened.

Due to the tapestry nature of her Mark she knew that he was alive, moving around the continent, and continued to sing. So, he wasn’t dead. If you went by Geralt’s expression that would be the conclusion anyone would have made.

“Some time ago I sent him away. Said some harsh words and wished him from my sight Leo. Even if we did see him on the road, there would be no guarantee that he would welcome the sight.”

Oh but he would, and Ciri could guarantee it. Her other father still sang of the White Wolf but didn’t explicitly refer to him as such. The bard sang tales of romantic woe, lamenting his broken heart and how he would never love again. These songs never contained the words ‘Witcher’, ‘White Wolf’ or ‘Geralt’, but Ciri knew they were of the man beside her.

“Does he know about your Marks?”

“No. His is a sight-mark. He could see mine for you, but not for himself. I suspect he thinks that the lioness I have plastered alone my side is romantic.” No, he didn’t. The bard would have known, had known about the Child Surprise, and would have known that she was a familial mark, not romantic.

“Would you go see him, if you knew where he was?” This was a question he considered in great depth. His head was tilted, chin in hand, eyes downcast.

“Yes.”

“Good, then we should head toward the coast, he’s singing about you there.”

***

When Ciri was younger and out of the watchful eye of her family she would undress herself in front of her mirrors and trace along the Mark. The shimmer of the gold made it look as though the images moved, wavered like a hung tapestry.

She followed the line straight down the back of her neck with her eyes, watch as it split into two, two distinct beginnings. The Wolf’s was longer and larger, but the Bard’s was no less detailed. Her Wolf father had been through hardship, was forged through the trials of becoming a Witcher. She could see the check’s other Witcher’s made to his back. One still image showed her that he cared, that so many others cared about her Mark on him that they would check to see it.

Her Bard father had been self-made entirely. A larger blood family than her Wolf father, but somehow more alone. He had gone off to learn his lute and a great many other things, she herself started lessons based on what she could see in the tapestry, hoping that when she met him, she would be able to converse with him. That he would keep her if she was interesting. 

Everyone knew that Marks weren’t a guarantee of love or a bond, no matter the type or strength of the Mark. So she made herself into something she thought these two men would love.

A fierce daughter for the Wolf, sneaking out and learning about the world with her own eyes. A courtly daughter who would delight those that the Bard surrounded himself with. She would not embarrass these men; she would look them in the eye, and they would love her. Otherwise she would break, unravel.

The tutors in the castle remarked on her dedication; said that a true lioness would once again grace the throne of Cintra. Her grandmother rejoiced, a warrior daughter with the mind of a stateswoman, what she had wanted in Pavetta she now had in Ciri.

Alternatively, her mother despaired; Ciri was growing quickly, she would never truly be young and carefree as Pavetta wanted. Then Pavetta was dead, and her hopes of a daughter who never knew war or strife were lost with her body.

No one knew what her father saw or desired from her.

***

That was a lie. He saw a shining future in his heir. Unlike his wife he had a thread connected to Ciri, a familial bond with her, but it was interwoven with that of a platonic bond. Ciri would be his heir and equal. But she would also be his daughter.

With the death announced of both he and his wife the secrets that he had disappeared. The books that he had about the South hidden too well to be found, and the plans he had laid he always took with him.

Ciri had a third line in her tapestry, a third father she knew, but it had ended, left aloft and hanging beside the full stories of her Wolf and Bard. Sometimes she would allow herself to feel sad, mourn her other father.

***

On a quiet night she showed her Wolf the stories that he and her Bard had inscribed on her. He didn’t touch, but he asked about the Mark. Did it hurt? Does it move? Can she feel anything from it?

He in turn showed her the lute and lioness. She could see the strings of the instrument move, plucked by an invisible hand. Geralt told her that that was when Jaskier, her Bard, played. 

Laid bare like that she told him about how scared she was when his line would stop moving like her other fathers. That it would still. Later they would find out that when he drunk potions that enhanced his Witcher senses that that was when the line stopped, paused. Destiny would take a breath and throw the dice for Geralt’s fate, then decide if the line would continue or be cut.

In return Geralt told her that when she was nervous the lioness on his side would kneed the flesh of his shoulder. Would grip and claw into him when she was scared. The skin would vibrate sometimes when she was happy, warm after a bath and tucked into a bed with Geralt as a heater. Later they would figure out that the lioness purred at these times, content and safe. A big house cat laying in the sun, getting scratched under the chin by a knowing hand.

Both could feel the hum between them, the missing harmony too. They would set out tomorrow morning and travel to the coast, following their Bard, to fix whatever Geralt had broken, to continue the tapestry of their family.


	3. A Bard with a Lute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier's part and the ending.
> 
> Please take note of the change in rating. This is because I reference Yennefer's attempted suicide from the show. It's not explicit but please don't read if this is something that triggers or causes you distress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read this and commented and given the fic kudos! It all means a lot to me that someone else out there enjoys this type of fic like I do!

Everyone knew that Jaskier was pining; from those he bedded to those he simply sang to; they all knew that he was pining. It was a fact of life for him that he was to pine his days away.

The latest conquest, a lord in a villa by the sea, was not the first, and likely would not be the last, to comment on Jaskier’s lost love. Though he was the first to outright demand to know who they were.

“Was it the werewolf you and the Witcher slew?” Jaskier didn’t want to confess that after examination of the werewolf and how their sorcerer lover was helping them through the full moons that Geralt had decided against the said slaying. It was safer though, for the man and his sorcerer to be believed dead; Geralt had gotten his pay and the men had moved from the village. They were matches, the sorcerer was like Jaskier in that he only saw the colour of his match’s eyes and hair. Being that the werewolf in wolf form and human had black hair and blue eyes the sorcerer didn’t see much. He would probably be able to see the ocean in its clarity though, Jaskier could hear it outside the window.

“Decidedly not. The werewolf had already met their match.” Not a lie.

Whilst toying with Jaskier’s hair the lord guessed again, “The princess of Cintra?”

“What?” Jaskier leaned back away from the man to stare incredulously, “If you mean Pavetta then no, I hadn’t spoken a single word to her that night. And if you mean her daughter then definitely not, she’s a child!”

A huff of amusement came from the man as he pulled Jaskier to rest against him again. “Not a princess then. Any prince’s I should know about then?”

“No, no princes.”

The lord didn’t have a Mark of any kind, he’d told Jaskier this two days ago, whispered against his skin when he told the bard that he loved him. To the outside world though he supposedly had a string-mark, though he could not see the end. This was common enough amongst those with strings, some of them never found their match and settled down with someone else who wouldn’t likely find their match.

He’d asked Jaskier to stay with him too, by the coast, wanting for nothing. It was all Jaskier could really hope for, a handsome man devoted to him, settled in a court with regular pay. A bed to return to every night, someone with warm arms to welcome him.

But the arms weren’t warm enough for Jaskier who had grown used to sleeping under the stars or in a drafty tavern room. They weren’t textured with the scars of decades, littered across both arms and body. The arms didn’t belong to who Jaskier really wanted and that was the crux of it all.

He knew that the lord was going to propose tomorrow; the local courtiers had clued him into it accidentally. That and the fact that the servants were so busy with preparing a section of the courtyard, the section where he and the lord had first met because he was romantic like that, and Jaskier wasn’t to see it until tomorrow.

“Is it a man?” Maybe. It was partly Geralt and partly someone else. 

Jaskier had the sight-mark for Geralt, he was certain of it. Underneath his wrist cuff that he had never taken off in front of another he had a line-mark. The first words that his familial mark would say to him, “We’ve missed you my Bard, come away with us please, we need you.”

Those wouldn’t be Geralt’s words to him, but he could dream that the words were said with Geralt in mind for the ‘we’. Either way Jaskier would go, would leave wherever he was to follow this person, his familial match.

He wondered who could miss him without having met him before. Who would ask him to follow them to the unknown if he was still here with the lord, surrounded by all he should desire? Who needed him? 

The thing with Marks was that you never knew when they were doing to be matched, fulfilled. He could meet this person tomorrow or ten years from now. All the words were now was a siren call away from the coast and his current luxury, a call he would answer when it came.

Even now he had not fully unpacked his belongings; a tell that the lord should have noticed, someone who was still packed was ready to leave, disinclined to stay. Should his match appear now Jaskier only need to get dressed, put his lute away and he would be off. He was ready for his match.

“I wouldn’t say a man so much as a beast, on the prowl and chomping at the bit.” Unflattering but not a lie. Geralt was always on the move and disliked being reigned in. 

No one suspected that Jaskier’s cuff was hiding his Mark, he had a matching one on his other wrist and both were swapped out with different coloured cuffs to correspond with his clothes. There were physical markers on both his clothes and on the cuffs so that he could match them appropriately. Hidden in plain sight and unnoticeable, that’s what Jaskier wanted for his familial match.

His lord pulled him closer still, his back pressed to the lords’ front, intertwined from head to toe. If Geralt had done this perhaps Jaskier would not have felt so displeased with the action. As it was it felt like a claiming of Jaskier who did not wish to be possessed in such a way except by two others.

***

Today he wore white and gold, an outfit he could see properly due to Geralt’s amber golden eyes and his white hair. 

Last night he had decided he would accept the proposal, he couldn’t live indefinitely for the siren call to be made, or for Geralt to appear out of thin air to apologise and whisk him away. 

Despite this when he attached the golden cuffs, a gift from Yennefer the sorceress he long ago envied, they felt more like shackles than the protective barriers he had grown used to. These cuffs looked more like arm bands, they travelled from his wrists to inner elbow and acted like armour.

Yennefer had found him at the height of his misery, alone in a washed-out tavern, carrying only his lute, an extra pair of cuffs and a dagger that Geralt had given him. She’d taken him away. Opened a portal on the spot and took him somewhere where there was sand as far as the eye could see. They stayed there, in an oasis, where she helped him mend himself.

They’d traded secrets and stories like currency, one secret for another, for a bargain or a favour.

When she had shown him her wrists, told him everything, she had also given him the cuffs. They hadn’t traded anything worth the cuffs; gold infused with magic and chaos to protect him. He suspected that they were something she wished to give to her past self and now could only give them to him.

He’s worn them for the rest of their time in the oasis, she’d taught him some basic self defence for someone not of Geralt’s bulk and calibre. Taught him tricks to get himself up in the morning and then back to bed in the evening. How to survive post-Geralt.

They were friends now, though they steadily avoided talk of Geralt and the past that they had with him. Yennefer had a song dedicated to her properly now, aptly named ‘Kiss me Lilac’, for her eyes which he would never see the colour.

His once liberating cuffs from his friend felt like death tolls now; to his freedom or love for Geralt he did not know.

***

The courtyard as he had suspected was beautiful. When asked he’d told his lord that he could see only black, gold and white. As if to test this theory everything in the courtyard seemed to be a mix of the three colours.

Tablecloths were black and trimmed with gold or white. The roses and flowers in the courtyard themselves were a mix of white and yellow. Everything was awash with colour that Jaskier could see, his lord was kind like that. Trying for Jaskier because he loved him.

Said lord was waiting for him under the rose archway. This was probably where he intended to propose and where he intended for them to get married too.

When they died of old age and good wine all would know that this spot would be where they met, became engaged then were married.

Everyone, well most everyone, had probably pictured how they wanted to meet their loved one/s, those who they would bind themselves to. Something romantic or silly, something to tell as an epic tale to others. Then you picture the proposal, possibly something wildly different or much the same as the meeting. After the comes the wedding.

For Jaskier all three spots were different. Different locations, times, people to witness. 

The meeting was simple for his mind, given that it had already happened. They’d met in a tavern, he’d been singing and had bread in his pants, Geralt was alone and brooding in the corner. Story of Geralt’s life really.

The proposal was going to be by the coast; Jaskier would be the one to propose he thought. He’d have buttered Roach up for a seaside trot, take Geralt somewhere nice and secluded, ask the age-old question in the bright light of the morning. 

Now the wedding was going to be the real showstopper. In the light of the afternoon, with their closest friends, perhaps Jaskier’s familial match as well. Then they would dance together under the stars that they slept beneath on the road. The location would be wherever they could find a priest to marry them, the road, a village, a castle given the spots that Jaskier has performed in.

Anywhere with Geralt would be perfect for Jaskier.

Rather than the sweeping tale of three different events it seemed that he was doomed to only one. In the same spot in the courtyard.

***

The engagement party lasted a week. Locals from beyond the villa and estate swarmed into the cool halls and celebrated with the courtiers. Legendary bard Jaskier, companion to the White Wolf, was to be married to their lord.

News of the engagement reached further than the coastal shores, moved inland, for the tale of the taming of Jaskier was news that interested the entire continent that had been under his thrall. Younger bards and older ones wrote songs of this coastal lord, benevolent and kind, wooing their comrade Jaskier into a life off the road and away from performing.

Coin exchanged hands as bets were won and lost. It had been well over a few months that Jaskier had arrived and stayed at the lord’s estate and shared his bed and table. Many saw it a safe investment to place money on the eventual nuptials. 

Many still had wagers that a White Wolf would come storming into the peaceful halls, lay waste to the man who had claimed the bard as his own, and would leave quick as a thief.

The young lord and Jaskier knew of the bets and money exchanged, they laughed and treated it as merry fun whilst at the same time security was increased, the wedding date moved up and a priest was kept in residence at the estate now.

Things moved quickly when you had money to ply others with. Within the week the estate was again transformed, awash with blacks and golds for his lord wanted Jaskier dressed in white and gold.

They’d met when Jaskier was wearing white and gold. They’d been engaged with him wearing the same clothes, albeit washed and clean. They’d be married in something similar enough but different.

Time was moving too fast for Jaskier, he wanted to pause everything. Though he was not in charge of any of the preparations he was overwhelmed with the idea of it all.

When he’d contemplated a ride along the beach he was sent out with an escort. Five men followed him to the beach and along it. Geralt could easily defeat five men.

A friend whom Jaskier and Geralt had met on the road commented on such when he arrived for the wedding. Afterwards Jaskier was not allowed to leave the villa grounds.

More and more he rubbed the skin under his golden cuffs, which he didn’t dare take off despite the clashes with his clothing. He worried the skin, pulled and picked at the words.

Had Jaskier paid attention he may have noticed that this habit was not always a habit. That when the match drew closer to bearer of words that the words would become raised from the skin, more pronounced. They would tingle and itch, signalling to the bearer that the time was near, the Mark would soon change colour as the words were said.

But Jaskier was not paying attention.

***

The day of the wedding Jasker was dressed by the servants, his body washed, hair coiffed, clothes pressed carefully into place. 

No one touched his cuffs.

He was led out to the aisle, strewn with yellow and gold petals. Walking down it was hard for him. It felt as though his head were under water, the noises not distinct or clear, his vision was fogged as well.

Everything was blurry to him even when he reached the end. Perhaps especially when he reached the end. 

The priest went through his duties, spoke of devotion and love, to which Jaskier nodded dumbly. 

He didn’t want to be here or do this anymore. There were muffled sounds at the edge of his hearing, but it didn’t pierce under the water he was in.

“Do you swear to bind yourself wholly and devotedly to one another?” No he couldn’t. 

His lord answered, “I do.” More noise this time, louder but still indistinct.

“Do you swear to honour and treasure the bond you will forge and create?” What? No. He wouldn’t do that. Bonding ceremonies were for those truly in love, ready to cast off their other Marks for each other.

Jaskier wouldn’t do that.

“Wait!” This came through. Geralt was here. The noises were, by the looks of it, from Geralt and the little boy beside him fighting off the guards. 

He was quickly caught, held down by a dozen guards there specifically to stop a rogue Witcher. The little boy though ran toward Jaskier, dodging the hands of guests reaching for him.

“We’ve missed you my Bard,” He, no she, held out her hand to him. “Come away with us please, we need you.”

His arm itched as though only a griffin’s claw could scratch it away. His little siren had come for him. With Geralt, who was slowly making his way toward them.

Jaskier felt a tug on his hand, still clutched in his lords. Turning to face the man he saw understanding in his eyes. “Go with them. Your things are still packed.”  
“I’m sorry.” It had to be said because he was.

A kiss to his forehead, “I know.”

“Goodbye, Henry.”

They both let go and Jaskier took his child’s hand and ran. They grabbed Geralt’s arm and continued to run. The three of them saw the servant carrying Jaskier’s pack and lute, collected them both and made for Roach and two other horses.

***

Now, two hours later, after the adrenaline of the events had cooled Jaskier reflected on what he had just done. Run away with a Witcher who had torn his heart to shreds, and a fugitive princess.

Only one person he had heard of had golden markings like that.

“Stop worrying Jaskier.” He’d missed that voice. “We’re taking you to a cottage we found by the sea,” He’d get to see the ocean with Geralt. “We’ll talk then.”

***

‘Then’ happened to be three hours later, which included arriving, a bath and a quiet dinner. The three of them sat in front of a bonfire, clean and toasting some dough that hadn’t been used for dinner over the fire.

“Did you want to get married to him?” Ciri his siren asked.

“No, I wanted to be married, he just happened to ask me when I was in a good mood.” This did not alleviate the tension as he’d hoped.

“Jaskier,” The tension rose, “I accept the bond between us and pledge to remain faithful and to show you the colours of the world.”

The oath, the official oath for those bonded to a sight-mark, lifted the veil over Jaskiers vision. Everything became awash with colour, except the stark image of Geralt and Ciri. Both were dressed in black, coupled with their white hair they both looked as though they hadn’t changed.

Jaskier launched himself at the two of them, headless of the bread he had burned. They caught him, pulled him close and held him.

Warm arms to welcome him. Scarred with decades of work. Stars above them. Ocean to his left. This was where he wanted to be.

“I, Jaskier, accept the bonds given to me. Claiming my child and lover as my own. To be faithful and devoted, to love and –”

Geralt kissed him to quiet him. Closed mouth, tender lips, and a hand to balance Jaskier’s face. “We know.”

Ciri, not one to be left out, squirmed between them. “I Cirilla, accept the bonds given to me. Claiming my fathers as my own. To be faithful and devoted, to love and to cherish what my Mark has given me.”

They fell asleep like that, under the stars and in each other’s arms.

***

“Do you think we’re moving too quickly?” This was the fourth time Jaskier had asked today, but the first in front of the priest.

“No.” Both Ciri and Geralt responded.

It had been six months and the three of them now had fully realised bonds and were as thick as thieves. Which they sometimes were.

“May I continue?” The priest, an old kindly man asked.

“Yes yes.” Jaskier urged him, “Only, I worry that we’re rushing things a bit Geralt.”

His husband to be huffed, amused at Jaskier’s worries. “Do you love me?”

“Of course I do Geralt!” Jaskier said this indignantly. Honestly, he’d been in love since he laid eyes on the man.

“And do you love Cirilla, our daughter in all but blood?”

“Yes!” With this proclamation he hugged their daughter into his side.

Geralt turned to the priest, “Does that count?”

“I believe so, I now pronounce you as husbands.”

A cheer rose from the crowd, filled with sorcerers, witchers and bards. All that they had met on their journeys were present. 

Yes, this was how he pictured it, the rest of his forever. With Geralt and his golden eyes, with his little siren beside them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roll credits!
> 
> A huge thank you to everyone again! Whether you're a guest or a registered user on AO3 thank you for sticking until the end!
> 
> Also if you happen to read this note please leave a comment on your fave Witcher scene! Can be from the games, books or show, I'd love to know!
> 
> Personally I love, from the show, just when Jaskier's been healed from the djinn and is lamenting over Geralt's death. Perfect acting!

**Author's Note:**

> There will be three chapters, one for each of our family members :D
> 
> Hopefully you like it so far!
> 
> If there's anything you wanna see added or elaborated on in the next two chapters please let me know!


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